Tangled Web (20 page)

Several top microscope manufacturers had laid on a trade exhibition in the foyer outside the main lecture hall. It was here that Gordon found Ran Dawes and Carwyn Thomas discussing the finer points of micromanipulation with the man from Leitz. Gordon listened in at a discreet distance and was impressed with Thomas’s contribution to the discussion. He seemed to know a great deal about the advantages and disadvantages of the various systems on the market. He remarked on this to Ran Dawes when Thomas had moved on.

Dawes smiled and said, ‘Carwyn likes to keep his hand in; he still has his own lab attached to his office. Technically he’s still one of the best there is.’

‘Really,’ said Gordon politely. He was wondering why Thomas hadn’t mentioned this when he’d shown him around his unit.

‘Come on, have a try,’ said Dawes, leading Gordon by the arm to where a microscope was set up with micromanipulators in place. This was part of the Zeiss company’s interactive equipment display.

‘Try threading the needle,’ said Dawes.

Gordon looked down the eyepieces and saw what had to be done. A tiny needle with a bore smaller than the diameter of a human hair had to be moved with the right hand controls through a small loop whose movement was controlled by those on the left. A video screen above the microscope relayed progress of the attempt to those standing watching. Gordon’s first touch sent the needle whizzing across the screen and he had to hunt around to find it again but he quickly became accustomed to the sensitivity of the controls and managed at his fourth attempt to put the needle cleanly through the loop. Dawes applauded, as did three other bystanders who were keen to have a go themselves.

The good-humoured commotion and sporadic applause attracted more people until there were about twenty people in all watching the proceedings. Someone said loudly, ‘Come on Ran, let’s see what a real professional can do.’

Dawes was cheered as he sat down on the stool and played to the crowd by flexing his fingers like a concert pianist before lightly gripping the delicate stage controls. The needle went smoothly across the screen and through the loop without faltering. Gordon joined in the applause but his smile faded when he caught sight of Carwyn Thomas standing there in the second row of the crowd. Thomas was not applauding; in fact he looked a long way from being impressed by what he was seeing. His eyes were hard above a stone-like expression.

Gordon wondered if Thomas could be jealous of the younger man? Envious of his prowess and his being the current centre of attention? Surely he couldn’t be that petty, but when all was said and done, Thomas was a showman himself - a man who like many top researchers, enjoyed the limelight. The approval and applause of their peers became like a drug to them, often causing them to pressurise their research groups into ever-greater efforts so that their leader might continually have something new to announce to the world as ‘his’ research.

Gordon kept watching Thomas out of the corner of his eye as Dawes did an encore, again threading the needle in one smooth movement. This time, aware of the scrutiny of others, Thomas did applaud, but his eyes remained hard.

People started making their way to the lecture hall for the start of the afternoon session. As they did so, they passed by a series of trade posters, showing good-looking people in white coats, wreathed in smiles as they used the advertisers’ equipment to great effect in their quest for knowledge and success.

Gordon sat at the back of the hall in deference to the fact that he deemed himself an observer rather than a participant and was surprised to find himself sitting next to Ran Dawes.

‘I don’t think I’m going to stay for all of this,’ confided Dawes. ‘I’ve heard this talk given at just about every meeting in the last five years.’

Gordon checked his programme and read that the first talk was to be given by, Dr Shirley Spencer-Freeman, an American from Colorado: it was to be about her ongoing comparison of IVF children with a peer group of conventionally conceived children.

‘The bottom line is that there
is
no difference,’ whispered Dawes, ‘but she can’t see it. She prefers to concentrate on supposed discrepancies in IQ and academic achievement when all she’s looking at are statistical blips, well within the normal range of experimental error.’

‘Hasn’t anyone pointed this out to her?’ asked Gordon.

‘Many people on many occasions,’ smiled Dawes, ‘But there’s no thicker skin than that of a scientist with a bee in his or her bonnet.’

After fifteen minutes, Gordon began to appreciate what Dawes had said. The woman’s talk was an exercise in what statistics could do with nothing of substance.

‘Fancy some coffee?’ whispered Dawes.

Gordon nodded and the pair of them slipped out at an appropriate moment when Spencer-Freeman turned her back to look up at the screen and highlight some value with her pointer.

‘They can’t all be gems,’ said Dawes with a smile as they started off along the corridor to the hospital coffee shop.

‘I suppose scientific presentation is a sort of an art form in its own way,’ said Gordon.

‘But it helps if you have something to say in the first place,’ said Dawes. ‘Sometimes I think there’s an awfully strong correlation between having nothing to say and wanting to say it at great length. I think the bottom line is that some people just like to hear the sound of their own voice.’

‘It’s much the same in all walks of life,’ said Gordon as they entered the coffee shop where Dawes opted for cappuccino and Gordon an espresso.

‘Carwyn told me you’d been to visit John Palmer in prison,’ said Dawes.

‘At the weekend,’ agreed Gordon.

‘How’s he bearing up?’

‘Not that well,’ replied Gordon. ‘He looked dreadful, like he hadn’t slept for a month and he’s lost a lot of weight. Worst of all, he’s still determined to plead guilty to something he didn’t do.’

‘You’ll have to forgive me if I still harbour some doubts about that,’ said Dawes. ‘Stress can push people into doing some pretty awful things.’

‘We’ll agree to differ,’ said Gordon.

Dawes nodded thoughtfully and sipped his coffee. He changed the subject. ‘I understand that you’re one of the people investigating the Megan Griffiths business?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you figured out what happened yet?’

‘We know it wasn’t an accidental switch, if that’s what you mean,’ said Gordon. ‘Someone knew exactly what they were putting in the coffin in place of her body.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Dawes.

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘But why would anyone do a thing like that?’

‘That’s something we’ll know if and when we find out what happened to Megan’s body,’ said Gordon.

‘I understood it had gone to the incinerator by mistake?’ said Dawes.

‘That’s still a possibility,’ said Gordon, finishing off his coffee.

Dawes made a face. ‘Only a possibility?’ he said. ‘You mean there’s some doubt about it?’

‘Until we know for sure that’s what happened, there has to be,’ said Gordon.

‘You’re making it all sound very sinister. I thought body snatching went out at the turn of the century with Burke and Hare, damned if I can remember why they did it though.’

‘They stole bodies to supply the needs of the medical profession,’ said Gordon with a wry smile. ‘The medical school needed them for their anatomy work.’

‘Of course,’ exclaimed Dawes. ‘I remember now. Still, digging up the odd body wasn’t such a bad thing in the great scheme of things. They came from your neck of the woods, didn’t they? Edinburgh wasn’t it?’

Gordon nodded. ‘The trouble was, demand started to exceed supply so they started a second production line, based on murder.’

‘Well thankfully it was all a very long time ago,’ said Dawes.

‘There were a couple of convictions last year for the theft of the bodies of stillborn children,’ said Gordon. ‘They were used to supply a pharmaceutical company’s need for foetal tissue,’ said Gordon.

‘So it still goes on,’ said Dawes thoughtfully. ‘But surely you’re not suggesting that Megan’s body was used for something like that?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ countered Gordon. ‘I’m just trying to cover all possibilities. How well do you know Carwyn Thomas?’

Dawes seemed surprised at the sudden swerve of the question. He made a vague hand gesture. ‘Pretty well I suppose, I mean we’re not bosom buddies but we get on. I suppose I’m a bit in awe of him really; he’s achieved so much in his career.’

‘Thinking about what you said earlier, about him keeping his hand in, do you think he still sees himself as a front line researcher?’

Dawes thought for a moment before saying, ‘I suppose he does. Research isn’t something you ever really retire from, if you know what I mean. If you happen to get an idea then I suppose, whatever age you are, you’d want to follow it through to its conclusion.’

‘To get the glory,’ said Gordon.

‘We’re all human.’

SIXTEEN

Dawes left Gordon alone in the coffee shop, saying that he wanted to catch the second talk; it was going to be on the option of sex determination in IVF cases, an increasingly likely possibility in the near future. Carwyn was chairing the session and he thought he might be asked for his views at some point. Gordon decided not to join him, saying that he’d heard most of the moral arguments, both for and against the choice of sex in pregnancy and didn’t wish to add to his technical knowledge of the techniques involved. He opted instead for more coffee and a doughnut.

The fact that both Thomas and Dawes were going to be away from the IVF unit for the next hour was uppermost in his mind as he sipped his coffee. He was intrigued by the notion of Thomas having his own private lab and there was no doubt that the easiest way to find out what he might be up to in it would be to take a look while he wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure if he had the courage to do such a thing or if he should even be contemplating it … but it was a tempting thought. While he was debating the pros and cons, he noticed that his second cup of coffee tasted different from the first and glanced back at the counter. It had come from the same flask. It wasn’t the coffee that had changed but his taste buds: they were reacting to the mixture of fear and excitement building up inside him as he made his decision.

He left the coffee shop and walked back along the main corridor, feeling that everyone he passed knew exactly what he was planning. A casual glance from a porter seemed rife with accusation; the laughter of two nurses suggested they knew more than they should. He felt his pulse rate rise as he mounted the stairs leading up to the IVF unit and rehearsed his excuse should he be challenged. He would say that he needed some more leaflets about the IVF service for the surgery; he had underestimated the demand for them.

He reached the head of the stairs and looked in through the glass panel on the door. There was no one about so he opened the door, just far enough to slip inside, then paused for a moment to listen. He could hear the hum of lab equipment but little else until he heard the sound of laughter coming from a room along the corridor on the left. He remembered, from his conducted tour, that this was where the staff common-room was. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was coming up to three o’clock; they were probably having coffee. It was a bit of luck for him that they were all in the one place for the time being but things could change at any second.

He moved swiftly along to where Thomas’s room was situated - three doors short of the staff room and on the same side. He did so on tiptoe, holding his breath as he came to the door and tried the handle. There was no resistance; the lever went right down and the door opened quietly without any noise from the hinges. He gave silent thanks and slipped inside, steeling himself to close the door slowly again behind him.

As the door closed fully and the handle reached the top of its travel, he relaxed and leaned his forehead against the wood for a moment, letting out his breath and taking a moment to allow his nerves to calm down. There was sweat on his forehead and he was aware of the blood pounding in his ears. He turned round to see the photographs of children that he’d admired on his first visit here. This time the smiles of their parents made him feel dishonest.

He looked at the dark blue door at the window end of the wall. He had noticed it last time, but had assumed that it was a cupboard or a toilet, not the laboratory that Dawes had alerted him to. The Venetian blinds on the main window of the office were half tilted, making the room slightly gloomy, but not dark enough to warrant turning on the lights. He walked over to the blue door and tried it: it was locked.

He closed his eyes and swore softly as it started to look as if he’d taken a big risk for nothing but then it occurred to him that the key might be somewhere in the room. He looked in the various receptacles on Thomas’s desk and felt along the flat surfaces of the bookshelves before conceding the possibility that Thomas kept it on his person but then again …

With a growing sense of wrongdoing, he sat down in Thomas’s swivel chair to pull open the top drawer of the desk and start sifting through the contents. For a moment he thought he’d been successful as his fingers came across two metal keys on a small ring but he quickly realised that they were too small to be what he was looking for: the lab had a Yale lock. These were for something like a filing cabinet. The bottom drawer held a series of files in a corrugated cardboard holder. They contained patients’ notes, about ten sets in all. Gordon guessed that these would be the current patients in the clinic. He pushed them back to see if a key could be lying on the bottom of the drawer but stopped suddenly when he heard voices outside in the corridor.

‘Is the Professor back yet?’ asked a male voice with a strong Welsh accent.

‘He’s at a meeting; just go in and leave them on his desk,’ replied a softer female voice.

Gordon, who had frozen at the sound of voices, was galvanised into

action. He dropped to his knees and crawled into the kneehole of the desk, prepared to remain stock-still and hold his breath for as long as was necessary. He heard the door open and feet move across the carpet. There was a plop, as mail was dropped on to the desk above his head, then nothing. For the next few moments there was no sound at all. The unseen man was standing perfectly still in front of the desk.